Seven Sisters (25 page)

No matter which family member did it, there was no doubt in my mind that Cappy and her sisters were sharp enough and cool enough under pressure to cook up that gun switching scene even with a houseful of guests, including a chief of police. One thing I knew from watching my cousin Emory: Growing up with money often gave you a sense of invincibility, a feeling of entitlement that enabled you to forge ahead when others would hesitate. It could be an endearing trait, like Emory’s pursuit of Elvia, an obnoxious one, like Giles’s cavalier affairs, or a deadly one, like the killing of Giles Norton.

I started down another row, where a monument with a headless angel was laced with scarlet wild fuchsia. GONE HOME stated the simple words on the base under the name CAMPBELL—1902-1958. I leaned against the warm marble and wondered what had happened to the angel’s head and how one went about replacing something like that. I was idly looking out over the green cemetery lawns, brightly splashed with dots of yellow goldenrod, when it hit me.

There were no dates chiseled on the Brown baby’s headstones.

I rushed across the smooth grass to Detective Hud, who was ten rows away, and told him what I’d discovered.

“So?” he said, not nearly as excited as I was.

“So, that means something. Look at all the children’s graves we’ve seen. They’ve all had the birth and death dates.”

“Not that graveyard in Estrella,” he pointed out.

I impatiently waved his words away. “A lot of those people couldn’t afford expensive headstones. The Browns could. Why wouldn’t they put the dates on the headstones?”

“Maybe because they didn’t feel like it. You’re reaching for something that isn’t there. I think you’ve been in the sun too long.”

“You’re jealous because I thought of it and you didn’t.”

“And you’re delusional. Go back to the truck and have a Coke.”

“I’m sure I’ve hit on something, and we’re not getting anywhere trying to chase down a headstone that resembles this rubbing. We could be looking for days, and I haven’t got that much time. In case you forgot, this isn’t
my
real job. Let’s go back to San Celina’s Cemetery.”

“Even if you have hit on something, and I’m not saying you have, what possible good is going back?”

“We could ask Mr. Foglino. He knows tons of stuff about people buried in the cemetery and he’s belonged to the historical society for fifty years. If anyone would know why the tombstones are blank, he would.” I started back toward the truck. “Are you coming or not?”

He trotted up beside me. “We really should finish looking through this cemetery. We’re just going to have to come back if you’re wrong.”

“I’m not wrong.” Before he could answer, I added, “But even
if
I am wrong, I won’t be coming back, you will, so it doesn’t matter to me.”

“Don’t you have a cell phone? Can’t we just call him?”

“No phone in the maintenance shed.”

He complained under his breath, but kept following me. On the ride back down the grade toward San Celina, I chewed my thumbnail, hoping I wasn’t leading us on a wild-goose chase. When we reached the San Celina’s Cemetery, I jumped out before he switched off the engine, called out at Scout to stay, and ran over to the maintenance building. Mr. Foglino was just locking the weathered steel door.

“I’m glad I caught you,” I said, panting.

“Whoa, slow down there, missy,” he said, pocketing his huge set of keys. “What’s up?”

Detective Hudson walked up beside me, then stood there with his arms folded and his legs spread, his body language stating his feelings about this extra trip. I ignored him and asked Mr. Foglino, “Why don’t the four Brown girls’ markers have dates on them?”

An almost indiscernible grunt came from behind me.

“Now, that’s a real good question,” he said, glancing over at the disparaging expression on Detective Hudson’s face. “You’ve got a sharp eye.”

I turned and gave the detective a triumphant look. He rolled his eyes and impatiently shifted from one foot to the other.

“Did he ever find himself a men’s room?” Mr. Foglino asked.

“Ignore him,” I said. “Tell me the story behind the markers.”

“I reckon it’s not real common knowledge, having happened so long ago and all, but the reason there’s no dates is cause those little babies aren’t really buried there.”

A tiny jolt of electricity sparked at the base of my neck. “Why not?”

“Story goes that Rose Brown was so distraught over the death of her babies in such a short period, her family didn’t want her reminded of them when she visited the family graves. Both her sisters and her mother’s buried here. They all died during a flu epidemic, as well as some Brown cousins and John Madison Brown’s father and mother, who came to live out here from Virginia after the Depression took everything they owned. Rose Brown used to come once a week with roses for all her kinfolk’s graves until she went to live in that retirement home a few years ago.”

“But there are markers for the babies now.”

“That eldest Brown girl, Cappy, had them made up when her mother stopped coming to the graves.”

“But she didn’t have the bodies moved back?”

“No, guess she figured to leave well enough alone. Or maybe she’s thinking about doing it after her mother passes on. Who knows with that Brown family? They’ve sure done a lot for our community, but I’m not sure the whole group is wound as tightly as they could be.”

“What did the babies die from?”

He stuck his dirt-stained hands in the pockets of his overalls. “Don’t recall hearing what happened. I’m sure it’s in some old records. Back then—this was about 1926 or’27—babies were dying of all sorts of things that they can cure nowadays—flu, diphtheria, scarlet fever, measles, just plain old infections.”

“Excuse me, I need to check in at the office,” Detective Hudson broke in. He turned and strode away across the graves toward his truck.

“What’s his problem?” Mr. Foglino asked, his dark, thick eyebrows a fuzzy hood over his amused eyes.

“He thinks I’m being silly.”

“Don’t you have enough problems with one police officer in your life?” he asked.

“Detective Hudson is not
in my life
. We’re just working on this case together. So, you wouldn’t happen to know where the babies are buried, would you?” I looked at him hopefully. At that point, I was willing to bet that grave rubbing we had would find a match when we found the babies’ real graves.

“Sure do, out in Adelaida Cemetery. If I’d known that was who you was looking for, I could’ve told you earlier. They’re up on the hill part of the cemetery, if I recall correctly. Only reason I know that is my mother’s best friend’s neighbor was the Brown’s nanny for a little while. Remember hearing about the babies being buried up there back when I was just a little tyke.”

“Was it common knowledge?”

“Don’t really know, but I doubt it. It was so long ago, and no one thought overly much about babies dying back then. It happened in almost every family. Probably most people assumed they were buried here, and no one probably ever checked. Like I said, only reason I knew was because my mother and her friend talked about the oddness of them burying the babies so far from the family.”

“It is odd. Adelaida Cemetery is pretty far away and over the pass. It would have been a difficult trip back in the twenties.”

“Probably isn’t even active anymore. Those old cemeteries are a pain to upkeep. That one’s got so many trees and hills and rocks. I haven’t been there in years, but I’ll bet it’s gone completely wild unless someone’s taken a notion to keep it up.”

“Guess we’ll go out and look for them.”

“If you can talk your antsy-pants friend into it. He didn’t appear to be real enthusiastic.”

“If he won’t go, I’ll go on my own.”

Mr. Foglino took his hands out of his pockets and scratched behind a bristly ear, his broad, tanned face troubled. “Be careful out there, missy. It’s pretty desolate. Take that dog with you.”

“I intend to. Thanks for the information.”

He gave a curt nod. “Anytime.”

I started to walk away, then turned around and asked one more question. “Your mother’s best friend’s neighbor. Do you remember her name?”

“Mrs. Knoll. Don’t recall hearing her first name. Doubt she’d even be alive, though. I’m guessin’ she’d be in her late nineties if she was.”

“Thanks.” As I walked toward the truck where Detective Hudson leaned against the side, his legs and arms crossed, I wrote Mrs. Knoll’s name down on the back of my checkbook register.

“What’re you writing down?” Detective Hudson asked.

“Just something I need to pick up at the store,” I lied. Something inside told me to keep Mrs. Knoll’s name to myself until I figured out how she fit into the picture.

“What did the old man tell you?”

“The babies’ real graves are in Adelaida Cemetery. I want to go see them. Bet you fifty bucks we find the lily of the valley carved on them.” I gave Scout a quick scratch under the chin, then climbed up in the cab of the truck. Proud of my detecting work, I smirked at Detective Hudson when he climbed behind the wheel.

He pulled out the San Celina County map, scanned it, and immediately started complaining. “This place is in the hills outside of Paso Robles! We just came from there. It’s almost five o’clock. We’ll never make it out there and back in time for my date at six-thirty.”

“Drop me off at the folk art museum, then,” I said evenly. “I’ll drive out there myself. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what I find.” I turned and smiled at him. “You certainly don’t want to keep Bambi waiting.”

His face was puzzled. “Huh?”

“Miss Bodice Ripper,” I clarified.

He frowned. “Her name’s Heidi.”

I turned my face to the window, hiding my smile. “Of course.”

“Leave my love life out of this.”

“You brought it up.”

“This Adelaida Cemetery is out in the boonies. I’m not letting you go out there by yourself.”

I turned back to him and said, “Excuse me, but you do not have the authority to keep me from going anywhere I please. Besides, I grew up in this county. I’m less likely to get in trouble out in Adelaida than you are.”

His face turned a dull red as he started the engine, released the emergency brake, and slammed the truck into reverse. “We could do this tomorrow.” Rocks and gravel scattered as he gunned the engine and pulled too quickly out of the cemetery’s parking lot.

I swung around and made sure we hadn’t lost Scout, who was doing his best to get a toe-grip on the detective’s plastic-lined truck bed. “Take it easy, rhinestone cowboy, I’ve got a beloved dog in the bed of this city-boy truck. And I’m not waiting until tomorrow to find out if the rubbing is from the Brown sisters’ graves, and frankly I’m surprised you want to.”

“Heidi hates being kept waiting,” he grumbled.

“Then take me back to the museum, and I’ll—”

“If I let you go out there alone and you get hurt, your husband will have my head, not to mention other parts of my body to which I’ve become quite emotionally attached. No way, ranch girl. We’re going there together, look for these stupid graves, and then we’re through for the day.”

“You know, I can’t believe you’re not more excited about this. It’s a break in the case.”

“More like a paper cut.”

“Who knows what it could lead to? Quit being so close-minded. I swear, those blasted police academies need a creative-thinking class. You cops have thinking skills as narrow as a possum’s tail. This will give you a whole new line of questioning for the Brown family.”

“What do you know? I have an extraordinary conviction rate so I must be doing something right.”

“Dumb luck, most likely.”

“And for your information, that Brown clan is one extraordinarily tight-lipped bunch. I’ve interviewed Cappy Brown and her sisters three times and gotten squat. Half my questions their attorney won’t even let them answer. Except for the younger ones, who are not privy to any of the family’s secrets, a person would have a better chance finding out the recipe for Coca-Cola than a truthful answer from that group. And for all your bragging, I didn’t see you doing any better.”

“Then every little
fissure
in this case should thrill you. Shut up and drive.”

He tossed the map over at me. “Fine, you shut up and navigate.”

I calmly folded the map up and tucked it into his glove compartment. “I don’t need a map to tell you where to go.” I smiled innocently at him.

His answer was an exasperated, animal-like grunt.

Cops must learn that sound at the academy, too.

It took us almost an hour to get to the cemetery, which was quite a few miles off Interstate 101 on a turnoff out of Paso Robles. We twisted through neatly trimmed walnut groves, past rows of new grapevines thick with emerald leaves, fat, purple fruit hanging heavy and sensual among the lush foliage, under stands of cottonwoods with their bright yellow, heart-shaped leaves and maples just starting their turn from green to yellow to brown. Twisted deciduous oak trees, their trunks massed with poison oak, and white-trunked sycamores shaded the narrow two-lane highway with long fingers of afternoon shadows. The peaceful, empty road caused both Detective Hudson and me to withdraw into ourselves, become quiet and introspective, only startled out of the drowsy monotony of the curvy blacktop when a flock of hen turkeys dashed across the road, causing him to slam on the brakes. I glanced back at Scout, who’d survived the stop fine since he’d wisely laid down in the bed.

“Sorry,” Detective Hudson murmured

“Right at the next split in the road,” I said.

The cemetery lay on our left with no parking lot, but merely a wide spot in the weeds. We climbed out and walked over to the rusty gate. It was closed, but not locked. I turned and called Scout, since there was no one in this old cemetery who would care if he romped among the gravestones. I left my purse in the locked truck and just took my camera, a pen, and a pocket-sized notebook.

I followed Detective Hudson inside the weed- and wildflower-choked grounds. Except for an old outhouse that was long past its prime, there were only the overgrown graves shaded by oaks that had been here two hundred years or longer.